


Common Enemy

by bethagain



Series: Rebuilding [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Gen, Luke is an ally, Sexism, and everybody better get out of Andra's way, yes even in the GFFA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 11:14:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11966208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethagain/pseuds/bethagain
Summary: Andra's starfighter has an engine out.The mechanic assigned to fix it has some old-fashioned ideas about female pilots.





	Common Enemy

**Author's Note:**

> RL crosses paths with the GFFA! I wrote the first draft of this ages ago, when a friend needed cheering up after an incident much like this one. I finally got it edited to the point that I could post it here.

Andra comes stomping into the conference room at the edge of the converted hangar. 

The day’s training is long over. Luke sent everyone else home hours ago. He’s been sitting here in this makeshift office, trying to figure out next week’s lessons while the chrono on the corner of the table counts its way toward evening. 

He’s got a lot of problems to solve. Helena still can’t get her practice saber to hit where she wants it to. She’s a master at hand-to-hand combat and a frighteningly good shot. When she swings the saber blade and misses, her frustration actually darkens the air around her. 

Jaspet’s still having visions. They haven’t gotten any more interesting or useful. What they have become is dangerous. They stop him in the middle of a sentence, in the middle of a sparring match. So far, nothing they’ve tried has helped one bit. 

Luke’s eyes feel scratchy and his head hurts. He’s been trying to keep work and home separate, but so far all that means is that he stays here until he’s tired and hungry and can’t think anymore.

Andra pulls over the only other seat in the office, a wobbly-legged chair with a dent in its metal seat. She plunks herself down on it, legs kicked out and head falling back. The chair starts to tip and she swears at it as she catches her balance, then sits there glaring. 

The glare doesn’t seem to be directed at Luke, though, just a spot on the floor between them.

Luke rubs his eyes and runs his hands through his hair. They know each other well enough by now that he’ll let her see he’s tired. But he’s still her teacher, and if she has a problem with her training then he doesn’t get to go home yet. No matter how done with this day he is.

“What’s wrong?”

“Engine trouble,” she says.

Luke’s confused. It’s not about her training at all, then. “On your fighter?”

“Yeah. The fusial thrust drive on the upper left foil is down. Only giving about half power. Which is making things go wonky.”

He can imagine. X-wings have four fusial thrust engines, one on each of the four wing foils. The ship can run with just one engine on each side, but it won’t go very fast. With a single engine out, it can still fly straight as long as the wings are locked. But move the foils into battle position and you’ll immediately be going in circles.

Andra’s a master mechanic, though. She’ll know how to get things running right again. “You need time off to fix it?”

“No,” Andra says. “Apparently I will not be fixing it.”

“What’s wrong with the engine that’s beyond _you?_ ”

“Welcome to the New Republic,” she says. “In the interest of efficiency, engine repair will now be assigned to specified repair crews. Put in your work order and they’ll show up someday. Maybe they’ll even have a wrench or two.”

This is new. Since the early days of the Alliance, pilots have repaired their own ships. Knowing your way around an engine is great for getting yourself out of a jam when things go haywire on a mission. Plus, it’s a matter of pride.

But it also means that every ship has its own quirks, its own kludged connections, its own creative modifications. Repairing someone else’s starfighter can be… a bit of a challenge. When the regular mechanics get their hands on one, there’s usually a great deal of swearing.

Now that Luke’s taken on life as a teacher and administrator, he can empathize with the New Republic trying to organize things better. “You can still keep up with it, can’t you? Check their work, make sure you don’t lose your skills?”

Andra scowls. “Oh, you have no idea.”

Luke really wants to go home. There are leftovers from last night’s dinner in the conservator and he put clean covers on his bed this morning. He’s having trouble imagining what’s more important right now than food, refresher, sleep.

“Go on,” he says.

“It’s my ship,” she says, and Luke does know exactly what she means by that, even though technically the fighters don’t belong to them at all. “Those are my engines. And some random person is up there on the fuselage right now poking around in the wiring and I had to walk away before I pushed him off because he kept-- he kept--” here she pauses and seems to run out of words.

“He kept what?”

Andra’s cheeks are turning pink now, but it seems more like anger than a blush. Andra is not the type to blush. “It’s… I don’t even have a name for it. I’ve never seen _you_ do it,” she adds in a rush.

“I guess I’m glad about that?” Luke says.

“Well, I am. I’d have had to run you through with a lightsaber if you did.”

Luke manages a smile. “I’d like to see you try.”

Andra laughs. “See, that’s why I like you. None of that crap from you, you talk to me like an actual person.”

“Tell me again what this guy is doing?”

“How about if I show you?”

He doesn’t want to go, to be honest, but Andra’s a pilot, and this is about her ship. Begging off now would be like telling a parent you didn’t care what happened to their child.

 

The base is relatively quiet at the end of the day, but there are still a few crews on duty. Andra’s X-wing is in a far corner of one of the few working hangars, bright lights on around it and a uniformed figure up on a ladder doing something to the engines. Luke recognizes the starfighter immediately. It has a long line of carbon-scoring across one side that she refuses to let anyone paint over. A relic from the last, the final, major battle with the Empire.

They walk toward the ship together, but before they get there Andra says, “Wait here.” She continues the last several meters alone and calls up to the figure on the ladder.  “How’s that repair coming along?”

“Don’t worry about it,” comes a male voice from above her head. “We’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

“I’ve got a mission coming up in three days,” Andra tells him. “I need to get it out for a test flight before then, make sure the sublights are all up to speed and the connects to the laser cannons didn’t get fried when you re-upped the power.”

The man turns away from his work and climbs a few steps down the ladder. Luke watches him look Andra over. “Your sublight engines are going to be just fine,” he says. “You’ve got four of them, see? You can still run even if some of ‘em are out.

“Look,” he goes on, pointing with the wrench in his hand. “You can see the shapes of the sublights there. Right there under those curved panels. They run off of fusial thrust drives, totally different from your lightspeed engine. People don’t realize it, but lightspeed isn’t just revving your 4L4’s.”

“Those are 4J4’s,” Andra says. “Please don’t be treating them like 4L4’s. You’ll blow the ion capacitors.”

The mechanic breaks into a grin. “Oho, you know your engine names! Good for you. I bet you didn’t know the 4J4’s are the first ones to have dedicated ion capacitors. Makes ‘em run faster, get your X-wing up to 1,000 kilometers an hour.”

“1,050,” Andra says, and Luke’s impressed by how calm she is. “I checked the specs when I installed them.”

“You installed them?” The mechanic sounds surprised. “Well there’s your problem. You probably didn’t know how to connect up the dampers.”

“We went over it thoroughly,” Andra tells him, “when Incom was developing them. When I was one of their test pilots.”

“Yep,” the man goes on, oblivious. “You pilots think you know about engines, but things like those 4J4’s, better leave it to the experts.”

Luke has had enough.  He steps forward and greets Andra as if he’s just been walking by. “Getting your ship worked on?”

“Oh yes,” she says, her tone full of sweet syrup. The acid behind it could burn a hole in durasteel. “This nice fellow is taking care of my very complicated sublight drives for me.”

Luke calls up to the mechanic. “How’s it going up there?”

The mechanic doesn’t seem to recognize him. At least, he doesn’t greet Luke like they know each other, and he doesn’t get that weird look that strangers do when they realize _Luke Skywalker_ ’s in the room. “Hey there,” he says. “I was just talking to this lovely lady here about her repairs.” He chuckles. “She’s worried I won’t do ‘em right.”

“What are you working on?” Luke asks.

The man gestures up at the foil with the damaged engine. “She’s got a 4J4 running low on power. Not sure why yet. You wanna come up and take a look?”

Luke glances over at Andra. “I see what you mean about running people through with lightsabers.”

“Yeah.” She sighs. “I guess you’re my superior officer right now, so I have to ask. Permission to…?” 

Luke nods. “Go ahead. And you don’t ever need to ask again.”

“Hey! You!”

The mechanic looks back at her, startled, as if he hadn’t realized she might still have anything to say.

“Yeah, you on the ladder. Get the hell off my ship.”

“Hey now--” 

Luke cuts him off. “You heard the pilot. If your boss doesn’t like it, you can say Luke Skywalker cancelled the work order.”

The man’s a little louder than he needs to be, packing up his tools, but he’s gone in a few minutes. Standing next to Andra, Luke can feel she’s still seething.

“I’ve still got a mission in three days,” she says, “and I need to get in that test flight. You mind if I’m a little late tomorrow?”

Luke looks up at the starfighter with its top left engine compartment laid open, with that carbon-scored badge of bravery blazoned across the side. 

The leftovers in the conservator will still be there in a few hours, as will those clean covers on his bed. “C’mon,” he says. “Get your tools. You tell me what to do, and I’ll give you a hand.”


End file.
